


His Highness

by Oienel



Series: Korean History [3]
Category: Korean Actor RPF, Korean Drama, 이조선시대 | Yi Joseon Dynasty RPF
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9268220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oienel/pseuds/Oienel
Summary: Queen Consort's duty is to wait and trust. And to be there, when her King comes back.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First draft posted on tumblr, as an optional bias, but I believe that Gong Yoo deserves that.

Laquer is cold and smooth under your fingertips, and that irritates you. It makes your heart clench and your face muscles tighten, teeth hurting. You catch yourself scratching the table with your nail, and you snap your hand back.

You cannot lose your cool like this. Not today. Not now. Not when…

You look up at the doors and you can see the flickering light and a shadow on the other side. Paper is not stone wall. Even the best paper, which was made by this country artisans. Even Ming believe that the Joseon paper has the best qualities!

You open your mouth to speak, to call in your maid.

But you decide against it. What for? What will you call her for?

You shift in your seat, legs accustomed to this position, and yet falling asleep from your anxiety. Your skirt rustles and you hide your trembling hands under your jacket. Thumb of one hand is digging into your other palm and you exhale through your nose trying to calm yourself.

Suddenly your beautiful pavilion seems like a prison cell. All the lacquered furniture, so luxurious, exquisite patterns sewn into your hanbok, the softest silk on your body, the most delicate materials of your seat – all is laughing in your face, keeping you here.

There is Doctrine of the Mean sitting in front of you, but the book that always brought comfort suddenly serves only to awaken the deep sitting fear. Now striving for virtuous life is an elusive dream.

You hick up, in a way unfitting your position, but there is no one to see you, no elder in sight. All internal court is tucked safely away, locked in the palace, the last bastion.

King decided to keep the ground, King ordered not to take a step back.

You know that, his court knows that.

King won’t fly away from insurgents, he will face them head on.

That’s why you are anxious. That’s why you can’t decide what to do, your mind escaping you, your thoughts with your King.

Rain is tapping on the roof and the air smells of grass, wet wood and smoke. You think that you can hear the faint sound of the ruckus from the city, clanking of blades.

But you know that it’s your imagination, that’s just sound sitting in your head.

You snap your head up.

“Is anybody out there?” You ask, knowing that there is. Maid Jo shuffles inside and bows.

“Your Highness.”

“Bring me ink stone.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” You follow her with your eyes, as her own skirt drags on the wooden floor. She brings you beautifully adorned stone ink, your brush, ink and paper. Younger maid brings in the jug of water.

You watch your maid hands as she pours the water on the stone and rubs the block of ink on it, to dissolve it. It’s a strangely calming sight. She makes sure that ink is precisely diluted, and then offers you the brush with her both hands.

You take it and she bows to you and stands up. You don’t look at her, when she shuffles on her feet, not showing you her back until she reaches the door.

You dip the brush in the ink and remove the excess of liquid on the stone.

Sure hand leaves the straight black line on the white. Character after character appears on the page.

_Summer rain comes._

_Not without the grief._

_Long sigh and tears._

You are writing poetry when your Lord is fighting.

_Lone drop on the blade._

You are dyeing the page black, when he is dyeing his blade red.

You want to throw a tantrum, but you know that you can’t. You are a head of the inner court, you cannot show your fear, you need to be a token of moral support for His Higness’ actions. Even if your heart hurts, even if you wished he decided to run away.

Poetry was supposed to calm you down, but it doesn’t work anymore.

“Maid Jo!” She comes in and doesn’t need to be told to clean your table. She just does that, clearly knowing better than to add fuel to your irritation.

The smell of fear coming from every nook of the palace is suffocating you. If a weather was good you could have gone for a walk, to show everybody that you don’t fear for His Majesty. That you are perfectly sure that he will come back safe and sound.

But now you are confined to your quarters and you can only do so much not to pace nervously around the room. You know that the news of your nervousness will reach everybody in the inner court. And you don’t need a revolt on top of that. You have lost enough sleep because of the concubines.

Especially Ho Sowon. Her rank is a mere 4th rank and yet she behaves as if King was to dethrone the rightful Queen Consort and raise her to his side.

_As if that were to happen!_

The image of that cunning wench dampens your mood. Not only are you anxious, there is also anger boiling in your veins.

You don’t even have a deity to pray to. You ask your ancestors to spare His Majesty and thus to save the country and its people.

Your neck hurts and you’d love to take off the wig and to remove the hair pins, but you need to look perfect for the moment in which you will welcome His Majesty.

Time passes and the internal court is as quiet as always, save for merciless tears coming from the sky. You stomach clenches, but you know it’s not hunger speaking. You try to remind yourself to relax the muscles in your face. You wouldn’t want any wrinkles disfiguring your features. If the rest of your body is hidden underneath your hanbok, how else you can ensure the favor of His Highness?

“Your Highness.” Maid Jo’s voice is soft, yet urgent. There is a certain edge to it, but you cannot place it. Has one of the concubines made a move? His Majesty absence is always an incentive for every aspiring woman in the internal court. Your pulse speeds up as you wait for your maid to resume speaking. “His Highness is coming in."

You are standing even before she finishes. Doors open and even if you can see Maid Jo in the background and two young maids that opened the doors, and His Majesty servants, your eyes are focused on him.

He lost his helmet, but his topknot is mostly intact thanks to a decorative nail holding it in place. His headband is matted to his forehead with rain, sweat and blood, and your heart throb. Is it his blood? Or his slayed enemy?

His armor is stained as well and covered in dirt that rain haven’t managed to clean off. He bears a naked blade in his hand, and even if he looks exhausted, his eyes are shining.

“Sir.” You say through a lump in your throat.

“I have returned, My Queen.” He says. He doesn’t have to add more. His being alive and back, tells you everything that you need to know about the outcome of today’s battle.

Metal clangs as he drops his sword and steps in. He moves quickly, his body fueled with adrenaline from the fight. Doors behind him close, slowly, ominously, and you catch a soft smile on His Majesty’s servant, before they fall shut.

King doesn’t care that there is a lacquered table between you, his hands, still protected by plated sleeves, find your shoulders and he yanks you forward. You stumble on the table, your shins hit the wood, and your lips clash. He tastes of blood, dirt and sweat. The metallic scent engulfs him, smoke is still clinging to his body.

He licks into your mouth with a clear demand, He is a conqueror, he will not take a “no” for an answer. And you wouldn’t even phantom denying him that. You wouldn’t want to. Your knees feel weak and only his strong hold on your shoulders keeps you upright. You are too stunned to even try to reciprocate his touch.

Your mouth pulses and your vaginal muscles clench. You clearly hear the rain outside and the obscene sound of your kiss. Just when you decide to raise your arms, to put your hands on the plate on his chest he moves away.

You know him well enough to know that His Highness got impatient. His eyes, uneven and yet so perfect, fixed upon the table between you, seem to confirm that notion. It’s not the small table with few side dishes on it, the one you usually use for his late night snack. It’s your sturdy day table, to work on. You look up at the door and inhale to speak up.

King is quicker, his arms leave your body as he bends down and pushes the piece of furniture out of the way. You stare at him, once again stunned into silence, as he throws away pillows which serve you as your armrests and back rest. Your quarters start to look properly disheveled.

He sits on the mattress, the only thing left of your seat, his armor clanging, his legs crossed and hands resting on his knees. his back is straight, pride clear in his posture. You hurry to kneel beside your King.

“Sir, your wounds. Shouldn’t a Royal Doctor…”

“Those are only scratches.” He answers with a voice meant as an end of this discussion. His eyes are focused on your face, pupils glowing in the lampion’s light.

“But, sir, what about your armor?” You ask.

“You will take it off.”

This simple statement takes your breath away. To be able to take off His armor? To be able to undress Him? The grace that has fallen upon you!

“Yes, sir.”

You weren’t the one to put the armor on His Majesty, and you have never helped anyone with metallic plates, but softly spoken words from your King guide you. He is as certain as ever, and the thought of not listening to Him doesn’t even cross your mind. And the way his dark eyes follow your hands, or how He stares at your face, clearly taking pleasure in what He sees...

This low servant wouldn’t want anything more than his attention.

Plate sleeves are off, you put it away ponderously, knowing that those sheets of metal were protecting the body of Great King. Unfastening the plate vest proves to be more challenging. His Majesty hot breath on your forehead doesn’t help in this task either.

You indulge yourself, knowing well that you may be transgressing the bound of decency, but your Lord doesn’t take an offense, when you slide your hands up the red silk of his hanbok to push the vest off his shoulders. Ringing of metal promulgate the moment when the armor is off, small metal plates chiming like a minute bells.

He moved his arms to allow you to take off his armor, but other than that He is as still as a statue. His plated vest is heavy in your hands, but you put it away just as meticulously as the sleeves. When you are done, you look at your King, and you see that he is staring at you intently.

Pleasant warmth spreads inside your body.

_You are the one His Majesty wants! You are the one he has come to, to calm his blood after the fight. You! Not any concubine, not any maid. You!_

This knowledge allows you to relax, just enough to become seductive. Which man doesn’t like to be seduced?

Soft smile creeps on your lips, the barest hint of it, the smallest crook of the corners of your mouth. Quite bashfully you look at his face, the handsome face, his tanned skin, prominent cheekbones and chin, uneven eyes and straight eyebrows, and you keep his gaze, as your arms raise. Your hand finds the top adornment on your hair and you pull it out. The jade looks beautiful in the lampion’s flickering light. You put the piece of jewelry next to His armor, knowing well enough that this is precisely your armor.

Your eyes are back on His Highness’ face and you observe him, as his gaze follows your hands up. This time your nimble fingers find the pins holding your wig up. Usually your maid does it for you, but you’ve done it often enough not to look unskillful.

You wouldn’t want your King, your _Husband_ , to think that you are not good with your hands.

Your artificial braid is off, and you put it away. Your fingers find the long, golden pin, a dragon holding red pearl in its mouth. Your most prized possession, it’s a pin you’ve gotten from His Majesty on your wedding, it’s your regalia, proof that you are the Queen Consort, the Mother of Joseon People.

Your Lord takes it from you and moves to put it on the table. In safety.

Once again, a simple gesture takes your breath away.

You shake your head, and your braid falls free. The strain on your neck has lifted and now you only look forward to the moment when His Highness will take you, will conquer you.

And today his hanbok is simpler, the exquisite fabrics too frivolous to be put under the armor, so today the garments shielding you from his body are thinner.

You are lost in your thoughts and your desire, so you don’t notice the moment, when his hands undo a knot of ribbons fastening your jacket. The white collar loosens and your Husband just throws it away. His hands slide under the colorful fabrics to push it off your shoulders. Intimate touch makes your breath turn shallow, and the rosy color appears on your cheeks.

Suddenly his lips find yours, His tongue claiming your mouth, marking every nook as His. He doesn’t need to do that, you are His, and there is nothing else you’d like to be.

You shake the jacket off your body, hands sliding free of its sleeves, and finally your fingers find his face, nails scraping at the dried blood adorning the face of the Conqueror. The groan that rolls over the room, finds its way to your core and you shudder at the force of his desire.

His kiss turns urgent, his hands still bearing the signs of the battle yanks at the fastenings of your skirt and you fall back together, the fabrics of your hanbok serving as comfortable pillows. You are just as thirsty, your own fingers finding the edge of his garments, and you don’t search for the ribbons, you just claw at the fabrics pulling it aside. His red overcoat finally falls free, showing the white underdress. He breaks the kiss and with a last pull your skirt also falls open. You throw its sides open, revealing your own white underwear.

He drags your underskirt and underpants of your body, the animalistic sounds rumbling in his chest. You moan in answer, his demand your best aphrodisiac. You are the one to open your undershirt and just like that you are bared to his hungry eyes.

You are laying in the heap of your own garments, the chillness coming from the rainy evening biting at your body, but he is looking at you with a wonder shining in his eyes.

His Highness falls forward his lips on your navel. He drags his mouth up your body, soft touch raising the hair on your body, jolts of pleasure making your head light. You arch your back to offer yourself more fully and your work is rewarded with a lustful groan emitted into your skin between your breasts.

His hands find your sides and he laps at the side of your breast with his tongue.

“My Queen.” You hiccup. Your hands, previously fisting your skirt, move to rest on his back, manicured nails scratching the skin.

You know how He loves that.

“Yes, sir?” You answer, even if you know that you don’t have to. But how could you not answer His Majesty’s call. Your voice is raspy even to your own ears.

“My Queen Consort.” His voice is breathy, fanning over your skin as he reacquaints himself with your body.

“Yes, sir?” You choke out, as his finger probes your labia.

“My Moon.” He moans, and you answer with your own moan, as one fingers slides into you. “Always so ready, so ready to take me…”

You can hear the wonder in his words and your muscles contract on his finger.

“Always, my King, always!” You open your eyes, not knowing when you closed them, not wanting to miss any second of your Husband visit in your quarters. You find him looking between your legs, his desire palpable.

“So wanton!” He exclaims, but you are not sure if he is aware that he has voiced that phrase. But yes, you are wanton for him, and you will always be.

Suddenly hHe looks up at your face. “I wouldn’t want to deny my Queen what she wants so desperately.”

Once again you find yourself breathless, and you can only look as he hastily takes off his underpants and he drops to his knees between your spread legs, and just pushes in.

The breach, the slide, everything is perfect, everything just thrilling.

His Highness, impatient, so unlike to his usual behavior, doesn’t slide all the way in, but backs his hips, only to drive forcefully in.

With every hard thrust he reaches deeper, and you search for a support to counter his movements. The ribbons of his undershirt are tickling your skin with his every push forward, and you suddenly notice that not all of his skin is bared to your eyes.

Your breath is short and you find yourself weak from the pleasure your Lord is giving you, but you can be as demanding as your Husband, and you always fight for what you want.

So when his hands slide under your hips, to push it up for the easier slide, you help him, by locking your ankles behind his back and you lift your hips off the surface underneath you. This move blocks His Majesty movements, but he looks unfazed, as he speeds up, his thrust falling shorter. You bare your teeth at him, and he answers with his own teeth sinking into the juncture between your neck and shoulder.

That makes your vaginal muscles contract, and you scream, unashamed that just outside the paper door there are at least six people. Maybe more. You are fulfilling your duty as the Queen of Joseon people. Why would you be ashamed?

But you still haven’t seen His Majesty body, so you work your hands between your bodies, your Lord still on top of you, his teeth still worrying the skin on your neck.

Tomorrow you will hold your head high.

You unfasten the knots on his undershirt, your nimble fingers working quickly.

And then His Majesty stops, and the whine escapes your lips. He sits up on his heels and your hand helplessly follow his body.

“My Queen.” He prompts. His topknot is holding up, but you can see ways that sweat carved through his blood covered face. His neck is glistening and you find yourself wanting to lick it off, to lick off the signs of his effort.  ”I gather you’d like to see your husband’s body.”

“Your Highness.” You manage to breath out. Your body is pulsing with need, and now you can feel how the sweat is drying on your skin.

He moves back on top of you, and your hand creep up on his back. His mouth place a barest kiss on your lips.

“Should I grant you this sight? Should I fulfill your wish? My Wife?” He is teasing you, but your most prominent answer is a cramp between your legs. He sits back and bares his teeth. “When your body is pleading so deliciously, My Queen.”

He finally takes his undershirt off and falls on his hands offering his body to your hands. You lift your arms and you splay your fingers on his chest and slide them down his body, fingertips trying to commit every valley, every deep, every muscles to your memory. His Highness skin is soft, even if he is all hard muscles, ready to be used.

He takes your right hand into his blood-covered fingers and slowly kisses your fingertips, gesture tender and soft, making your heart swell.

There he is. Your King, Your Conqueror, not taking, but loving. Loving you, even when he could just take you.

He places your hand over his heart, and you can feel your eyes getting wet in the corners.

“My Queen, we’ve won.”

“No, my Lord, my Husband. You’ve won.” Your answer a barest whisper.

He groans and his hand covering your falls to the ground, and you quickly throw your arms around his neck, as he drives into you.

You have calmed down a little, but His Majesty knows how to work both of you up. You hold him close, your short nails sliding on his sweaty skin. Your mouth has fallen open in, now, soundless cry, your throat scratched raw. Your sweat is pooling on your navel and below your breasts, mixing with your Lord’s perspiration, overflowing drops sliding down your body, dying your skin red with blood of your Husband’s enemies. Your legs cramp and your feet are falling asleep, form being in the air for too long. Your heart in your chest is thumping madly and your eyes, even when glazed over with pleasure, are focused on His Majesty’s face.

He has his eyes closed, mouth open, his muscles slack, as the pleasure takes over his body.

Your own body arches off the makeshift lair as you try to escape the sudden earth shattering pleasure overflowing your insides. Your mind is whipped out in the sudden blaze of white and you emit one more long wail as His Majesty gives you the freedom you’ve been searching for.

You are dazed and boneless, but not too gone not to feel how he spill inside you. You moan at the feeling, hoping for His seed to bring you a son. A son just like His Majesty.

He leaves your body and falls next to you, bringing you close.

You are His Queen. You are entitled to stay with Him after warming up his bed.

Soft, feather like kiss falls on your temple and you smile.

You are His Queen.

And nobody will take that title from you.


End file.
